


Chrysalis

by Meatball42



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Circus, F/M, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pack Dynamics, Succubi & Incubi, Werewolves, or something like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:56:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is not as human as he thought he was. He couldn't tell you <i>what</i> he is becoming, but the time has come to choose <i>who</i> he wants to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chrysalis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> So CloudAtlas, I read your prompts and tags, and then I Googled 'magical realism' and 'urban fantasy' and this kind of took hold of my brain. A whole bunch of your requests are in here in some way, but it's kind of like finger-painting: just because the colors are all there doesn't mean the final product is a rainbow. I hope you like the final product, as mixed-up as it is.

Clint knew it was a bad idea from the start.

For starters, he didn’t like their chances on the heist. Jacques had brought Clint and Barney in on the job- robbing a small and under-secured suburban bank- pretty late in the game, so their plan was shoddily formed and relied too much on luck. The circus was leaving town in two days and Jacques’ act was starring tomorrow night, so they had to pull off the robbery tonight, and they hadn’t had enough time to prepare.

The other reason he wasn’t too optimistic was that Clint wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t like any other sickness he’d had, and he’d had quite a few; traveling with the circus had the side-effect of exposing you to a whole country’s worth of minor bugs. But there was no sore throat, no upset stomach, no headache, just an all-over warmth, a creeping lethargy and a strange tingling behind his eyes.

Barney hadn’t liked it when Clint wanted to call the job off. “This is gonna be our big shot!” he’d insisted. “Just one more job, baby brother, then we’ll be rollin’ in it!”

 _Barney says stuff like that a lot_ , Clint thought, _and it’s never over._ He poked his head around a window frame on the second level of the bank. The building had once been town hall, and was full of boring paintings and big marble staircases, with a view of the whole historic district from the front wall.

Clint's sharp eyes took in every detail of the empty streets. In deference to his illness (though Jacques had scoffed disbelievingly when they told him) Barney had put Clint as the lookout. It was his favorite position anyway, and while he looked out over the moon-dappled cars and building of the ‘burb he felt almost peaceful. He let his burning forehead rest against the cool glass of the windowpane. _I just want to be the best archer there ever was. Why can’t he understand that? When will it end?_

Clint’s watch blinked and an exposed wire zapped him slightly on the wrist, a set-up he’d made them himself. It meant that Barney and Jacques were finished, and they would meet him at the extraction point. He practically floated down the staircase, making an extra effort to keep silent. They were pretty much in the clear, but there was a single night-watchman who reportedly never left his office. There was no reason to take a chance of spooking him, though, and Clint skirted through the halls carefully, keeping to the shadows. He was almost at the side entrance when he heard someone call out “Stop!”

The man’s voice echoed through the halls, kicking Clint’s heartbeat into the triple digits. He started running through the wide hallways toward the sound of a scuffle. Clint gripped the small knife he kept in his belt, prepared to throw it at any time. He wouldn’t let any rent-a-cop hurt his brother!

He flashed around a corner just in time to see Jacques, holding a shiny black handgun that Clint had never laid eyes on, pull the trigger on a liveried security guard.

The gunshot was deafening against the marble floor and empty walls. Clint stood blinking, dazed, for long seconds, and it was only Barney’s tight, scratching grip on his arm and frenzied shouting that made him move. They tore out of the building, hot on Jacques’ tail, and raced through the streets toward their hidden getaway car. As soon as his ears stopped ringing, Clint could hear sirens in the distance, getting louder with every second.

Clint tripped, heavy feet clumsy on uneven asphalt, and slammed to the ground, scraping himself painfully. Barney grabbed his collar and dragged him to his feet, but Clint only fell behind further as Barney pelted away. There was a heat in his chest, in his gut, that was leeching energy for his blood. Although Clint panted for breath, he only felt more dizzy, his legs losing their power to keep him upright.

Clint stumbled to an alley and practically fell inside its mouth. Half on his feet and half on his knees, he made it behind a dumpster and curled up in the corner with the alley wall, hugging his knees. What had been warmth under his skin before had grown into a hot prickling all over his body, and the shakiness had become a tension like electricity with no outlet.

The sirens got louder, and Clint could feel his pulse racing, but it was unimportant next to the fuzziness of his skin, the way he was sweating, the way his clothes scratched and the scrapes on his palms and knees felt like daggers cutting into him. By the time a shadow fell over him, it felt like Clint was on fire.

“What do we have here?” a deep voice asked, chuckling. Clint’s every instinct screamed ‘Danger!’, but he barely had time to flinch before the world faded out.

~ ~ * ~ ~

It wasthe itching that woke him up, a burning worse than that time he got poison ivy all over both legs and one arm. Clint was writhing before he was aware of being awake, moaning before his eyes opened and he found himself in an empty cell, two sides of concrete and two sides bars and open air, surrounded by cruel-looking, grinning men in black uniforms. When Clint gasped for air and forced his moans down to whimpers, he could hear them.

They were laughing at him, maliciously. In the circus, you got to know when people were laughing with you, or at you, or _at you,_  and this was the laughter of men who had cornered their prey. Clint’s eyes watered as he smelled them, something rancid and rotting, something that screamed of pain and fear. He curled up into a ball and shivered, his head knocking against concrete that was so cold it hurt rather than helped soothe the burning.

“A baby fae, out in the big wide world on its own,” someone commented. His voice vibrated strangely, like a growl. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous, pup?”

“Good thing we were there to help you,” another crooned.

“You must be in so much pain. We’ll help you,” purred a third, while others murmured dirty thing, scary things that Clint had never imagined, things that perverted the concept of ‘help’.

The unrecognizable scent that was permeating the air twisted, and suddenly Clint was aware of how _hard_ he was in what were now his extremely constricting underwear and pants. His whole body shivered again, but this time it was with the awareness of the need to run, to stretch, to _move_ -

“We’re going to teach you your place, pet,” a new voice announced, deep with command and rough with lust. The other men laughed and whined with agreement, and Clint’s whimper was lost in their renewed taunts.

“Rumlow!”

A new voice struck through the air and died on dense concrete walls. Clint cringed instinctively, curling tighter into a ball around his midsection. Whoever was arriving, thick boots falling heavily on the bare floor, had a ring of authority that reminded Clint of his father, way back: the newcomer was dominant, not to be disobeyed.

And indeed, the heavy breathing and terrifying promises subsided. Clint cracked open an eye. The crowd of black-clad grinning men had parted, and facing off in front of his cell was a blonde man in a dark blue uniform, facing down the leader of the black-clad men. Their stances were unmistakably inches away from battle, and Clint closed his eye again: he’d learned enough survival instinct not to watch the big ones clash.

But shutting off one sense just meant he could feel the others more keenly, and Clint whimpered anew as the newcomer’s eyes seemed to stroke over every inch of his burning, sweating skin. A full body shiver wracked through him when he caught a whiff of the new scent.

“Have you reported this?” the new man said, and Clint’s eyes rolled back in his skull.

“Of course,” someone said smoothly. “It’s probably caught up in the system somewhere.”

It’s the leader Clint identified before, but his dominance is veiled, curtailed. The newcomer is dominant, and the black-clad men’s leader is defensive. Clint shuddered again, a wave of heat taking over his body.

“...somewhere safe,” the newcomer was saying when Clint could hear again.

“He’s completely safe in police custody, Rogers,” the leader mocked. “In fact, we’re the ones you should be concerned about. This one shot a security guard trying to rob the Provincial Trust.”

Clint whimpered sharply, the closest he could get to a denial. He tried to kick out with his limbs, shove himself into a corner, but he was too hot, too weak, for even that.

Blondie didn’t seem to like the accusation any more than Clint. “As I’m sure you can scent, Rumlow, he’s starting his first Surge,” Blondie growled. “He wouldn't touch his worst enemy right now, except in self-defense.”

“Some of these street fae, they’re real monsters,” the leader said. “They’ll make you think they’re all sweet and innocent, and shoot you in the back. _You_ shouldn’t trust a single one. Why don’t you stick to your politics and leave the policing of those of us who understand the real world?”

Blondie straight up snarled, surprising Clint enough that he looked up without thinking. Blondie looked at him too, and _sparkled_. Clint gogled for a moment, then realized himself and tucked his chin to his chest.

“I’m taking him with me,” Blondie announced.

Around them, the black-clad men growl and whisper in disagreement.

“Are sure about that, _Captain_ _?_ ” the leader spat. “He’s gutter trash. If you take him in, whatever he does, whatever he becomes, it’s on you.”

“I said, he’s coming with me. Open this cell.”

There were more angry sounds from the group of black-clad men, but within seconds the cell door creaked open, and Blondie entered the cell.

The touch of Blondie’s skin was like a hot water bottle on sore muscles, like curling up in freshly-laundered blankets. His scent was like smelling hot barbecue when Clint hadn’t eaten in three days, and Clint scrabbled at Blondie’s clothes, trying to get _closer_ and _more_ of all of it, salivating helplessly at the idea of what he must _taste_ like. He writhed, and Blondie had to clutch him closer, which made all of Clint’s senses go haywire in a way he couldn’t understand or control.

“Want something to subdue him?” the leader said, a cruel smile in his voice.

Blondie hesitated, then said yes.

Clint felt a sharp prick in the midst of his burning, and then nothing.

~ ~ * ~ ~

This time, the first sense to register was taste. Clint woke up sucking on delicious, salty skin, and only afterwards noticed strong hands clenching around his ribcage and soft blankets wrapped around him. Blondie’s voice, low and gentle and not at all trying to be dominant, guided him to the surface.

Clint blinked, and saw the massive hickey he’d left on Blondie’s throat.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” he said without thinking.

Then he leaned back in and started sucking another one right next to it.

“That’s okay,” Blondie chuckled, breaking off to hiss. “You just- ah!- just, do what you need to. Within reason.”

Clint didn’t know what he needed. Apparently, he needed to stretch shaky hands over Blondie’s broad, chiseled chest, pressing into hard muscles underneath a cotton shirt. Apparently, he needed to bury his face in Blondie’s neck, inhaling for that unbelievable scent that was eternally out of reach.

Blondie’s hands- warm, strong, _good_ \- rubbed Clint’s back and arms and sides, soothing the heat that was making his whole body ache. Blondie kept up a murmur, from which Clint heard very little, but which included words like ‘safe’ and ‘explain’ and ‘be alright’.

Eventually, the murmuring and the rubbing and the taste of Blondie’s skin lulled Clint into a doze, and he drifted off with his nose tucking into Blondie’s armpit.

~ ~ * ~ ~

An irritated voice twisted into Clint’s sleep. It yapped and yapped, and pulled Clint closer to the surface.

“Do you know how much work I have to do, cleaning up after your last mess? I’m not one of your lapdogs to come to heel every time you break out the whistle!”

“No one’s suggesting-” Blondie began, annoyed.

“Then why the hell am I here instead of working peacefully in my clean-smelling tower, happily away from you and your-”

There was a moment of silence, finally broken by an amused huff. “I wondered how long it would take you to notice, Stark.”

Clint flinched violently at the new voice. It was a light alto, coy and sharp and burning bronze behind his closed lids. The fire inside, banked by Blondie’s warm heat all up his side, flared back to life even more violently than before.

Clint opened his eyes and twisted on what was apparently a bed, to catch sight of the mystery woman on the other side of what was apparently a small bedroom, with sultry purple walls and deep brown furniture. Clint’s sharp eyes took in details of his surroundings, like the presence of a dark man frowning to the right of the bed, as his entire consciousness zeroed in on the goddess before him.

She stood like gravity itself was bowing to her, with curves like a lovingly carved statue and elbows like danger signs. She looked a few years older than Clint, mid- to late-twenties, but something about her bearing spoke of experience or wisdom. Her skin was pale but warm-looking, her hair a burning orange temptation, and her eyes…

Well, Blondie had sparkled, back in that cell. This woman, she _blazed_.

“Clint, you have a choice to make here,” Blondie said, right into his ear. That dominant tone was back, raising the hairs on the back of Clint’s neck, and he listened even though his fingers tingled with the desire to reach out to the woman.

“Your Surge is here, and it’s very strong. You’re looking at a few days before you can be on your own again, or maybe longer. Which of us do you want to help you?”

Clint blinked, struggled to think. There was a question in there, right? “Who? For what?” he mumbled.

The dark man snorted, adjusting the cuffs or his charcoal business suit. “Sex, kid. You’re a bouncing baby incubus, hitting incubus puberty, which means you need sex. You’re a bit late, which isn’t fun, let me tell you, but a few rolls in the hay and you’ll feel like a new man.”

“...incubus?”

“Where’d you find this kid, Steve?” the asshole scoffed.

“The holding cell of Pierce’s precinct,” Blondie said sharply, and the asshole let out a ‘huh’.

The green-eyed woman had held Clint’s gaze during the short conversation. She took a single step forward, drawing everyone’s attention to her.

“You need to choose,” she told Clint. “One of us will take the responsibility of sating your Surge and instructing you on the demands of your new species while you rest. Which of us are you most attracted to?”

That was jarring enough to drag Clint’s attention away from her plump lips. “I- what? You, obvi- I mean, I’m not _gay._ ”

“Yeah sorry, the bite marks on Steve’s throat gave us some doubt. I didn’t even know he  _could_ bruise like that.”

The woman stepped forward again, coming to the foot of the bed. She put one knee up on the mattress. “Leave us, Tony.” Clint gulped, already hypnotized again.

“Adorable,” the asshole commented. “Well, call me in a few days, I’ll swing by with pizza and beer. Assuming you’re old enough. Hey, kid.” Suddenly the asshole was leaning over Blondie to squeeze Clint’s shoulder. His touch should have been annoying, if not repulsive, but instead Clint tingled more where he was touching.

“This is scary, I know,” the asshole said, sounding nearly nice for the first time. “But you’re gonna come out the other side just fine. Nat’s good people, she’ll steer you right. _And_ , you’re not listening,” which wasn’t fair, ‘cause Clint kinda was, but the asshole headed for the door, so it was fine.

“Tony,” the redhead said, meeting the asshole’s gaze solemnly. “Thank you.”

They shared a look, and then the asshole turned and left, closing the door again behind him.

“Time for me to head out as well,” Blondie said, and started shifting to the edge of the bed. “We’ll provide water while you’re here. Don’t worry about anything except your health and listening to Natasha.”

Clint whimpered involuntarily the moment they broke contact; the heat, which had been at a quiet simmer in his gut, crested again and left him shivering with the ache to touch. He reached out, but Blondie shook his head once, and Clint pulled his hand back, cowed.

“He Imprinted on you, huh?” the woman commented, amusement and something darker in her voice.

"He probably caught your scent, or Tony's, on me. It’s a good sign,” Blondie said certainly, but the redhead didn’t look impressed.

“We’ll see.”

Blondie left, and Clint sighed forlornly, pulling his knees up to protect his hollow stomach. He shivered, this time with cold, and the redhead watched him. 

She didn’t move, and with every second the heat got stronger until it was white hot at his core. Clint whimpered and tucked his head into his knees, unable to look at her when she just made the fire worse.

“My name is Natasha,” she said at last.

Eventually, he said, “Clint.”

When the fire was pain and his edges felt singed, he looked up. She hadn’t moved, through the long minutes. “Am I going to die?” he whispered.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “Did you listen to Tony and Steve?”

“People lie,” Clint answered.

“Then how do you know I won’t lie?”

Clint gazed longingly at her face like the moon, radiant and blank. “Please don’t,” he managed to choke out. His fingers dug into his calves.

Natasha sighed, then got up on her knees and shuffled toward him. The bed was a king-size with a dark blue duvet and rich red sheets that Clint clutched to him when she was kneeling above him, looking down like Clint was a stain on her rug she was going to have to remove somehow. He waited, shivering, until she frowned harder.

“You're not going to die. I swear on my life." Her eyes are as hard as stones and she waits until Clint nods to continue. "You’ve been told what's going on with your body, and what it needs to get better. I need to know that you understand what we've told you and that you're okay with the treatment.” Her hand reached out to him, graceful fingers curling in the air near his skin. Clint shuddered.

“I- I get it," he stuttered. "Hormone- thing. Needs sex to level it out. You..." he blinked out of a long gaze into her lovely eyes. "You're going to help me," he managed.

Natasha relaxed in some barely noticeable way. "Thank you for letting me help you,” she said sincerely.

Then she leaned down and kissed him.

It was like the first snort of coke, straight to the heart, adrenaline buzzing and the world both expanded and contracted to the infinity of _Natasha_. Her nails scraped over the back of his neck, and beneath his hands, against his front, was warmth deep enough to contain the fire coming out of his skin. She was over him, under him, her tongue was in his mouth, his shirt gone under her hands, and then the sparkling bliss of skin pressed to skin.

Time blurred, and Natasha knelt above him, so far away, in a black lacy bra and underwear. Clint’s pants were undone and being pulled down, but his hands traced the edges of her statuesque arms and sides, touching the defined muscles and stroking lovingly over the soft places. Natasha looked into his eyes and smiled, rolled her eyes, murmured “You dork,” and then she was laying against him and her skin was the softest thing he’d ever…

She rode him, her beautiful thighs on either side on Clint’s hips, her nails making cool fireworks down his chest, the incredible heat of her pussy somehow draining the fire that filled him. Clint groaned and gasped and begged and pulled her down until he could force his love inside her by the mouth, and her breasts rubbed his chest and bounced and her ass dimpled under his fingers and the fire surged…

Cool water trickled between his lips. Clint’s eyes fluttered and he grabbed the bottle with heavy hands, gulping water until he was ordered to stop.

He opened his eyes and met Natasha’s as she nodded, satisfied, and took the bottle back. “Good boy,” she murmured as she screwed the lid on and put the bottle on the bedside table.

Clint looked around the room as if for the first time. “Where am I?” he asked, bewildered.

“This is the home of the Rogers coven,” Natasha answered. She laid her head on the pillow beside Clint’s and stretched, her body arching sinuously under the red sheets. Clint eyed the lines of her as he listened. “I mean, technically it’s one of Tony’s houses, but he likes keeping us close, even if he won’t admit it.”

“Tony?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. “The man who was here before? Smelled kind of like motor oil and smugness?”

“Huh. Yeah, that’s… why can I smell that?”

“Most fae have more powerful senses than baseline human. Your hearing and vision should be unaffected, but for you and me, smell, taste and touch are stronger.”

Clint struggled to think about this, but his head was foggy. He put it down on the pillow and rolled toward Natasha. Without his conscious intention, his arm curled around Natasha’s bare midsection; she held his wrist in her hand.

Once they were settled, he tried again. “I thought the fae were just a cult of pagans or hippies.”

“We try to keep it quiet.” Natasha nodded. “Otherwise people would freak out. Vampires are all but extinct, since people started believing in them a few centuries ago.”

Clint ground his forehead into the pillow. “Okay, so… I sort of have to believe you, because… I can smell that you’re telling the truth, which is fuckin’ weird.” Natasha smirked. “So… you said, you and me?”

The smirk faded and Natasha looked at him seriously. “We’re succubi. We feed on sexual energy. We’re not killers, like you may have heard; or, no more than humans are.”

Clint stared at her. “I’m- we’re- not human?”

“We’re not that far off,” Natasha said sympathetically. “If you want specifics you’ll have to talk to Bruce, but we can reproduce with humans.”

“And… and eating… sex? Is that what I’m feeling?” He squirms, putting his hand over her bellybutton and pressing to indicate the flames that had spiraled out of him like a hurricane.

Natasha interlocked their fingers and Clint held on tight. “What you’re feeling is Surge. Every fae has it every so often; it’s an accumulation of hormones. Every couple of months, usually, you’ll have to fuck for a few days; Steve’s species have to fight and fight until they tire themselves out. It’s different for all of us.”

Clint was already talking over her. “A few days? The circus leaves tomorrow! I can’t miss the train!” He was sitting up, intent on throwing off the covers and getting some real answers, when Natasha’s mouth descended on his neck from behind and _sucked_. Clint gasped, arching his back, already feeling the hot mist descending on his mind again even before her hand slid down his stomach to tease his hardening dick.

“You can’t go out like this, not until your Surge is finished,” Natasha hissed in his ear, breath harsh even as she jacked him off smoothly and evenly. “Fae in Surge have been known to cause a lot of damage; both to property and to individuals.”

“I wouldn’t-” he protested.

“I know,” she hummed in his ear. She pressed her body against his back, all those miles of soft, tempting skin, and Clint’s bones felt like they were melting. “I know you wouldn’t, normally. But until you know how your Surge will affect you, it’s best to stay somewhere safe.”

“Natasha- my brother, I need-” he broke off, tossing his head back on her shoulder.

Natasha let go, turning him around to face her with strong arms. Her nails caught his chin and her emerald eyes locked onto his. “If you want to go back to the circus afterwards, I promise you I will get you there. Wherever they are, whatever it takes. But for now, you have to trust me.”

She was implacable. Clint felt his responsibilities dissolve under her will. “Okay,” he whispered.

Natasha smiled, and took him again.

~ ~ * ~ ~

Every inch of Clint’s body felt pleasantly sore. His muscles ached with the familiar high or exertion, his skin tingled with energy and the echoes of sensation. Best yet, Natasha’s weight dug into bruises as she laid on top of him. Her hair fell into his mouth sometimes when she moved, but Clint couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You have to have sex about once a week. You’ll get full long before a human is in danger, much less another fae. The side effects are more along the lines of extreme bliss than pain, though I’ve heard of sex-induced heart attacks.”

Clint choked on her hair when he laughed, clinging to pull her tighter against his front.

“It’s like a huge, delicious, filling meal that leaves you satisfied for days. Human food is more like snacks. It’ll tide you over, but if you try and run on it for too long, you won’t feel well. And we burn more calories than humans anyway.”

“Why is that?” Clint asked. His voice rumbled in his chest and he felt the vibrations through her body. Her scent filled his mind.

“We run hotter than humans.” Her hand slid down his side, raising goosebumps. Clint closed his eyes. “You’re getting there.”

“I’m getting there,” he echoed, and pulled her up until he could reach her mouth with his.

~ ~ * ~ ~

“Steve’s a _what?_ ”

“A werewolf,” Natasha said for the third time, glaring at him from the foot of the bed where she was reclined, sipping a Capri Sun and snacking on a chocolate bar.

“And those guys who arrested me?”

“Werewolves too. They’re a pack, hired by the government to police the fae community. Steve is… in a similar position, but…” Natasha worried her lower lip between her teeth. Clint wanted to go over and suck on it himself, but his head was clear, and he resisted the urge. “It’s complicated.”

“How could he just take me from them? We did- I did break the law.”

Natasha’s expression made it clear that she was not fooled by the deflection. “Politics. Steve’s faction has more pull right now, even though Rumlow’s pack nominally has jurisdiction. He could have tried to fight for you, but he knew he’d lose against Steve. You picked the right Alpha to Imprint on,” she said dryly, like he even knew what that meant.

“What the hell does that mean?”

She rolled onto her stomach, which set off another short flurry of fantasies. Clint felt himself blushing.

“It’s how covens form. Family, sometimes, but more often it’s just-” she snapped her fingers, “you click. I was assigned to work with Steve when he started policing, and we just knew. A year or two before that, I’d been assigned near Tony, and meeting me kickstarted his late Surge. It works like that, sometimes.”

“He’s not a werewolf,” Clint said slowly, a baseless surety underlying his words. “He seemed…”

“He’s a succubus too. Odd having two in a coven, but he and Steve- well, they didn’t click, but the Imprint is there, and strong.”

Clint stared at her again; though, considering he hardly ever took his eyes off her, it wasn’t surprising. “So you guys, you… fight crime. As fairy creatures.”

“We’re not fairies.” Natasha looked mildly offended. “We fight crime as what we are: the best. Most of Steve’s coven are fighters, or scientists, or good with magic. There’s a lot that goes bump in the night that you don’t know about.” He lips quirked in a lopsided smile. “We try to protect people.”

 _The best_. Clint blinked hazily. _Fighters_.

“You okay?” Natasha asked when he didn’t respond. She crawled up the bed toward him, and although the sight was extremely arousing, Clint only felt a tired flare inside. “You need to go again?”

“No,” he murmured. “I think…” He yawned.

Clint caught the tail end of a soft smile and Natasha crawled around him and got under the covers, spooning him. “Rest, kitten. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

~ ~ * ~ ~

Finally, he woke up and felt nearly normal. There was still warmth under his skin, like a gentle fever with none of the dragging ache. There was still soreness, from the last several days of energetic sex. And there was still the incredible scent of Natasha, filling his nose and filling him with a different kind of heat, a warm blaze that felt like it could never be extinguished.

Not even by her cool gaze as she sat across the room from Clint, eyes dark as she inspected him. She was pulling her clothes on, black jeans and top and finishing with black leather booths.

“Do you have any more questions about your nature?” she asked, and the words felt strangely ritualistic.

He didn’t really, but it felt like in school when you were supposed to have questions. “I… why did Tony call me an incubus, and you said succubi?”

“They’re the same thing, just gendered. Incubus is the masculine singular and succubus is the feminine, incubi and succubi are the plural terms.”

She sounded patient and frosty, like… she sounded dutiful. Clint’s heart sank. He swallowed and nodded, looking away.

“You have a choice to make,” she murmured, just before the door opened.

Blondie- Steve was there, in a tight gray shirt and sweatpants- workout clothes. Clint could smell him, and he smelled friendly, right, even as Clint distinguished the species scent that Steve shared with Rumlow’s pack. Steve’s scent had none of the blood and pain Clint had unconsciously identified from them. This was a dominant leader who he could trust, perhaps the first Clint had ever met who could claim that distinction. There was even a hint of the alluring taste Clint remembered from the beginning of his Surge, but it was buried under the solidity of the Imprint.

Steve nodded approvingly at Clint, who was sitting upright on the edge of the bed without lolling in Surge-madness or exhaustion. He looked at Natasha expectantly.

“I was just getting to it,” she answered some unspoken question.

She turned back to Clint. “You have options. I promised you that if you wanted to go back to your circus, I would help you. I will not break my word,” she said firmly, even as Steve shifted his weight uncomfortably in the doorway.

Clint nodded, resolute. The options were immaterial, he knew. He belonged at the circus, with Barney and Buck and Jacques, their clique of weapons performers and the scattered web of strange alliances they’d made over the years. He was relying on Natasha’s solidity to overrule Steve, whose tense and slightly angry scent made clear that he didn’t want Clint to leave. Clint had faith in Natasha.

She went on. “This coven is a fighting pack, and you have skills we could utilize. We’d house you, train you-”

“We’d be your family,” Steve interjected.

Natasha cut a quick glare at her Alpha. “We could be _like_ a family,” she corrected.

Clint wracked his brain for how she could have figured out so much about him, considering he was positive she hadn’t left the room during his Surge, but mainly he tried to wrap his mind around the unexpected twist.

“You’d let me- join up?”

Clint watched as Natasha and Steve glanced at each other and nodded simultaneously.

“But- my record. I was just arrested for murder! You can’t invite that into your- your team, your home!” If Clint were indicted, he’d be kicked out of the circus for sure. They had all sorts of former cons among them, hell, half the crew was running one racket or another, but murder was a whole other story.

Steve folded his bulky arms over his huge chest. “The security guard survived,” he informed Clint. “And in any case, you didn’t shoot him. The cameras proved that.”

“The worst you would be charged with is felony burglary and accessory to felony murder, which you could easily plead down to misdemeanor robbery in the first if you told us who shot-”

“I’m not a snitch!” Clint protested over Natasha.

Steve cut over them both. “You won’t be charged at all!” His snarl filled the room. Clint leaned back, shocked. Natasha just scowled.

Steve took a deep breath. “Sorry. But you’re not in any trouble. You were at the beginning of Surge, and you could argue you were manipulated. It’s not uncommon, particularly since you didn’t know what was going on.”

Natasha nodded. “Tony nearly collapsed his own mansion when he started Surging for the first time. Not to mention the endangerment of a few hundred civilians.”

“And you’re mine,” Steve said, a growl undercutting his words. “If Rumlow wants you, he can go through me. Well, he can try.” Steve grinned, exposing teeth that glinted.

“You’re ours,” Natasha said more gently. “As a fellow incubus, particularly one Imprinted to his coven, Tony would take you in. His attitude may drive you crazy, but you’d be crazy in luxury. Or you could stay with me. Neither of those options requires you to join the Avengers, by the way. We don’t leave our own behind, for any reason.”

“Avengers?” Clint repeated vaguely. His head was spinning again, but not because of his hormones, this time.

“My team,” Steve answered. “We’d be glad to have you.”

“It’s up to you, Clint,” Natasha finished.

Clint swallowed and tried to see his way back to the night at the bank, when everything had seemed so… normal. Bleak and demoralizing, but normal.

He should go back, to his brother, to the life that had embraced them as runaway kids. But the path he’d dreamed about before, taking Trickshot’s place and becoming the greatest trick archer in the country, running games and heists on the side, didn’t hold the same appeal. The magic and glamour of the circus had proven to be a lie, and so had the loyalty of Jacques, who’d run ahead without looking back, and Barney, who’d let him fall behind.

Here, there was a new world to explore, new heights to reach for, and people who- Clint sniffed- were heartfelt and determined in their vow to take him in.

“I… I want to see my brother again,” he began, and something in him warmed to see the flash of disappointment in Natasha’s eyes, to hear the sad whine Steve tried to muffle. “But… I want to stay here,” he told them, decided at last.

Steve visibly perked up, looking more like a Golden Retriever than a scary werewolf. Clint and Natasha both laughed at him. Natasha stood up and came over to the bed, her eyes glowing and just as mesmerizing as the first time Clint saw her.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly, taking his hand. Clint squeezed, and she squeezed back. Steve edged out of the room as Natasha leaned down to kiss Clint, and this time the warmth of her touch felt perfectly natural.

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many headcanons for this universe. If it's okay with my giftee, I might do a few short things in this 'verse. Send me prompts if there's anything/anyone you're interested in seeing!


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